


Something Like Trust

by TorWithoutAnH



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TorWithoutAnH/pseuds/TorWithoutAnH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the old regime at the Citadel, relationships were formed out of necessity for survival. The challenge now facing Furiosa - as new leader of the Citadel, in her personal life, and in her search for redemption - is establishing relationships based on trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Minefield

**Author's Note:**

> I've not read the comics or any other supplementary material, so the "facts" as I present them may differ from canon. I am a fan of the original Mad Max trilogy, so references to that portion of the canon will come up in later chapters.
> 
> Also (because this is information I would want up front) in this story, Furiosa does not have a history of being sexually abused, but Max does. Any chapters that do more than vaguely hint at this will have appropriate warnings.

Intimacy is a minefield.

Case in point: the second morning of the fifth time Max returned to the Citadel, he still asleep in Furiosa's bed when she woke at dawn beside him.

He slept more soundly now than in his earlier visits, when any stirring from her side of the bunk would jolt his eyes open immediately. Furiosa didn't want to wake him, for true rest was scarce and precious, but somehow she didn't want to leave without making contact once again. So before sitting up and swinging her feet to the floor she slid closer against his back. She traced her hand around the curve of his hipbone.

Twin stabs of pain flared suddenly at her brow and her ribs as Max's head and elbow slammed backward. A panicked growl rose from his deep in his chest. Furiosa shoved down hard on his shoulder, forcing him onto his back, and held him down until his eyes found her face. After a moment he stopped struggling. The wild-eyed terror faded from his face, leaving only pain that was sliding into guilt as he processed where he was, who she was, what was happening, and what her intentions must have been.

"It's okay," Furiosa's voice was level. "I won't do that again."

Max nodded, but the tension still held in his shoulders did not relax.

"Hey," she added softly, dropping her head closer, "you're okay. You're okay."

She narrowed the space between them, pressing her forehead to his. The throbbing above her eye didn't bother her much. They breathed.

 

* * *

 

It was trial and error, but more often trial and success.

The first night of the second time Max returned: it had started out as a drink, then a massage, but within ten minutes her legs were wrapped around his head.

Max had arrived early in the day, rolling up to the gates in his battered old car. Furiosa was busy the whole day, negotiating the renewal of trade agreements with Gastown and the Bullet Farm. So Max tried to make himself useful, working for several hours on the restoration of salvaged rigs. But the constant rushing and banter of the blackthumbs began to overwhelm him so he slipped away, wandering the Citadel's corridors like a ghost until he stumbled into the greenhouse.

The room was empty. He slumped against the wall and closed his eyes.

He must have slept, because he woke with a start when Furiosa called to him from the doorway.

"Heard you were back," she explained as he staggered to his feet and warily assessed his surroundings. "Had a long day. Diplomacy..."--she scowled--"I'm having a drink. Come on."

Her last words were somewhere between an order and an invitation but Max followed just a step behind back through the maze of tunneled halls. Furiosa led the way with her face set in a stern refusal to tolerate interruption. A small group of pups tried to intercept her as she turned down the corridor to her room; when they saw her, they scattered, deciding it could wait.

Max hesitated at the doorway, but Furiosa beckoned him in with a nod. She closed the door behind them.

Furiosa had kept the same quarters she had used as an imperator under the old regime. Like most rooms in the Citadel, it had been carved directly out of the rock with a high domed ceiling. It was narrow, the distance between the small window high up on the rear wall and the door about twice the width of the room. The floor was bare rock except for a very old, dingy, and unidentifiable animal skin rug. A waist-high ledge of rock stretched along the rear wall, serving as a work table mostly buried under spare parts, tools, knives and sharpening blocks, partially assembled guns, and a precarious stack of old books. The only other furnishings in the room were a bed, a small table beside it, and a stool by the worktable, its seat made from an old wheel rim wrapped in string.

The entire room glowed faintly with sunset orange light filtering in through a rusty windowscreen. Furiosa lit a grimy oil lamp hung on a hook on the wall before dropping onto the bed to tug her boots off. Max still stood in the center of the room. She turned to him with a questioning look and patted the space to her left on the bed. After a pause Max shrugged with a quick hint of a smile and shuffled over. He sat down carefully, surprised by the unfamiliar give of the mattress, and, after a slight pause, eyes darting around the room, slipped off his boots. Furiosa grimaced in sympathy as he stretched his legs and rubbed his sore knee.

Once he was settled she reached down into a crate beneath the bed and extracted a small canteen. A sharp odor wafted through the air when she pulled out the stopper.

"Local grog," she explained, as Max's nose wrinkled. "From any part of a plant that isn't eaten or woven. Get past the taste, it'll cut the pain. For a while." She shrugged, taking a swig, then offered him the canteen. Once again Max hesitated, but took the canteen and tipped back a swallow. He sputtered at the harshness of the liquor before taking a second gulp and handing it back. Furiosa drained what liquid was left. She dropped the canteen back in the crate. Then, sighing heavily, she began unbuckling the straps securing her back brace and prosthetic arm.

She set the arm and its supports on the table beside the bed. Max watched as she rubbed awkwardly at her right shoulder, muscles sore and knotted from bearing most of the weight of the prosthesis.

"Hey," he said, softly. He reached out to her, letting his hands hover just above her shoulders. Furiosa nodded and leaned into his palms. She groaned under her breath as he began to work the tension out of her neck and shoulders.

Max scooted nearer to her, folding his good leg under him. She sighed as she felt the heat radiating from him so close behind her. Her hand came to rest gently on his unfolded leg, a question. With his soft grunt of approval-- his own hands, meanwhile, pressing in deep around her shoulderblades-- she began massaging his achy knee, wincing at the uneven once-shattered, poorly-healed shape of the kneecap. Max groaned as a lucky press of her fingers allowed a sudden release of pressure on the cartilage. With the responding tightening and relaxing of his grip on her shoulders she moaned and slumped against his chest.

His hands drifted down over her shoulders to glide along her collarbones. Furiosa's head tilted back. Max could feel the prickle of her hair on his neck and the warmth of her breath on his cheek. Her hand was now sliding lazily up and down his thigh, stirring a rush of blood between his legs. By this time Furiosa's wrapped blouse, without the leather straps holding it in place, had begun to loosen and fall. The press of Max's fingers on her chest was slipping lower, nearer to the exposed skin at the top of her breasts, until the tension and heat she felt became unbearable and she spun around to face him.

She met the question in his raised eyebrows with one of her own, pressing her hand to his cheek. He took a deep breath. She waited for an answer. He nodded.

Their lips crashed together as Max's hands gripped her waist. Furiosa's hand wove into his hair and tugged, urging him to lie flat beneath her. He obliged, leaning back and spreading his legs, letting the weight of her body settle on him.

The kiss they shared was anything but soft, a frenzied press of lips dry and rough from life on desert roads. Furiosa pulled away with a drag of teeth that caused Max to shudder.

"Alright?"

His eyes were locked on hers. "Yeah."

This time their kiss was deeper and even fiercer than before, both thirsty for the wet heat behind each other's lips. Max's hands grew bolder in response to the insistent press of her tongue, slipping beneath the loosening folds of linen and sliding up her sides. Furiosa pulled back once again, this time to yank the now-cumbersome garment off over her head.

Max gazed at Furiosa's bare torso, eyes tracing the lines of taut muscle at her core, the shadows cast beneath her breasts by the flickering lamp. Reverently he pressed his thumb against the scar between her ribs. The scar that he had left on her. The wound he had made to save her life.

Furiosa grimaced and moved his hand higher, so that his palm was cupping her breast.

For just a moment his eyes took on a lost and faraway glaze, but just as quickly he was back. As his thumb caressed her, circling around her aureola and rubbing over the nipple, his free hand stroked up and down her spine, feeling the newly relaxed muscles ripple under his touch. Max sat up to kiss her again, gripping her shoulder for balance, her right arm braced to support their weight. His lips moved hungrily from her mouth to her neck and trailed down her chest. The sensation of his hot breath against the beads of moisture left by his tongue made Furiosa shudder. Then he took her nipple between his teeth, gently tugging. She moaned.

With the nub of her left arm she nudged him flat against the mattress again, freeing her hand to undo her trousers. Seeing her fumble in her haste to shove the stiff fabric off her hips, Max moved to assist her, his hands lingering on the smooth curves of her thighs.

Once she had kicked off her trousers Furiosa reached for Max's belt. In an instant his hand was covering and stilling hers. With a wild, haunted look in his eyes he shook his head.

Furiosa's brow furrowed as she drew her hand back and waited. Her expression softened again as Max reached up to caress her cheek, a pained apology written in the creases around his eyes. He sat up and kissed her, slowly, seeking something other than raw need. Something like trust.

With one hand on her shoulder and the other at her hip, he guided her into exchanging positions, she on her back as he began gently stroking her thigh. Furiosa relaxed into his touch. When his rough fingers reached to part the folds of her vulva, already slick with her desire, she sighed against his lips. His thumb pressed and teased at her hardened clit. Stubble grazed her cheek as he turned to nip at the skin just below her ear. She gasped, and reached between them, nudging him to slip two, then three fingers inside her. His mouth travelled down her body, and Furiosa was writhing under the scrape of his teeth and the dry-wet press of his lips and tongue. She groaned and grunted as each curling of his fingers hit home.

By the time his mouth reached the triangle of dark hair between her legs, she was already on the edge. Fingers still pulsing at her walls, he replaced the thumb at her clit with his lips and began to hum, and that was all it took to undo her. Her thighs clamped around his head, she shuddered violently and a guttural moan escaped through clenched teeth. With a final shiver she sank back into the mattress.

Max lifted his head, slid his fingers out of her, and wiped his hand and mouth on his sleeve. He crawled over to lay beside Furiosa, not touching, just watching, his head propped up on one elbow. After a moment, he carefully draped an arm around her waist. She smiled.

 

 


	2. Safe Travels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The graphic violence warning was added for this chapter. No sex this time, just mostly sadness.

That night of his second return to the Citadel was the first in many hundreds of days that Max had slept in a bed, and the first in many thousands that he slept beside another person.

At the first light of dawn his shuffling woke Furiosa. Caught in the middle of pulling his boots on, he turned to face her, wary. She merely nodded to him as she sat up in bed, and he slowly relaxed. Her eyes followed him as he got his second boot on and rose stiffly to his feet.

"Before you go"-- her words caught him already halfway to the door-- "stop by the kitchens. There's some dry meat and onion set aside for you. Enough to last a few days."

Max mumbled his thanks, avoiding meeting her eyes.

In a moment she was on her feet, barely more than an arm's length away. He took a hesitant step towards her, his eyes darting, the ghosts already tugging at him again. She held out a hand, just as she had before they rode out on the salt, now so many days ago. He clasped it.

"Safe travels," she said.

His gaze met hers for a second that could have contained a thousand days. Then he was gone.

 

* * *

 

The first time Max returned to the Citadel, he didn't stay the night.

He had left-- on that day of liberation, the death of the old regime-- when the celebration of victory had barely begun. He slipped away from the crowd cheering and chanting for Furiosa, dodged the mob that set about to rend the corpse of Immortan Joe. The bikes of the Vuvalini who had survived the bloody ride were parked unattended. Max took one, gunning the engine to carry him as fast and far away as he could get.

Before he rushed away, he watched Furiosa, raised high on the lift by the War Pups who revered her, their young and innocent smiles clear symptoms of hope. She saw him.

She could barely stand, one eye was swollen closed, but she saw him, down in the crowd, as he began to turn to leave. Maybe she was just dizzy, unsteady and wobbling, but she seemed to nod her dismissal. Her thanks. Her blessing.

The Citadel was barely out of sight before the tremors started.

It began in his hands, fingers clenching and unclenching on the handlebars. Within a few minutes the shaking had spread through his entire body, teeth chattering, the wasteland stretching before him a jittery blur. The entire bike was rattling now, accelerating in erratic jumps, threatening to tip off balance into the dust.

Suddenly the dark-haired girl jumped into his vision, in perfect clarity against a muddled landscape. She pointed off to his left. Slowing the bike, squinting to focus, Max saw, a couple hundred meters off, an archway half-buried in the sand. He turned and rode for it, straining every measure of control over his body and mind he had left.

It was the entrance to an abandoned mine. The tunnel under the sand was narrow, but not steep. He walked the bike down it, one trembling hand poised to seize his shotgun.

The tunnel did not lead very far, just to an antechamber of the mine from which three now-collapsed paths branched. By the change in the air the room was only a few meters below the surface, but it was empty and cool and quiet. Max let the bike lean against a crumbling rock wall. Then he all but collapsed to the ground, shaking violently, curled into a ball with the shotgun clutched to his chest.

It was three, maybe four days he stayed down in the hole. Some of that time he spent in a sleep so deep it was near unconsciousness. The majority was spent fitfully, precipitated by terrors that roused him from sleep by the sound of his own screams. Once awake he was in frantic motion, checking his weapons, counting and recounting his remaining ammunition. He paced the room, sometimes clawing desperately at the rubble of the collapsed passageways, pausing only briefly to gulp down water or a bit of food. When after long bursts of activity he began to stumble, vision blurring, he slumped to the ground and slept.

At last he awoke without panic driving him, and he took stock of his situation. His wounds were healing, luckily, with no sign of infection. The bike was in good order, he had plenty of food, but his water was already half gone. Grunting to himself he packed up his gear and climbed back out to the surface.

The sensible thing to do would be to head back to the Citadel, only a few hours ride. He pointed his bike in that direction and rides, in no particular hurry, until the voices start.

_Help us, Max! You said you would help us! Why did you let me die?_

He turned the bike sharply towards the mountains.

From about a kilometer off he observed that the pass blocked off by the sacrifice of the War Rig and its driver had been blasted open again. He slowed the bike to a stop, watching, listening.

The only sound was the soft rushing of the wind. The way it stirred the dust, it was impossible to tell if any vehicles had passed this way. Max rode on.

Beyond the pass the air was still and all was silent. The sun was setting now, casting long shadows on the bodies of men-- of boys-- who still laid where they died. He got off his bike.

The first cluster of bodies he found were a half dozen War Boys with matching silver-coated teeth and matching bullet holes in their heads and chests. Evidently they had charged at someone despite suffering previous injuries-- chest wounds, a severed arm, road rash, even a nearly crushed foot. The other bodies Max saw must have been fatally maimed by the explosion. Split skulls from impact with hard objects. Gut wounds from flying metal. A few of those with gut wounds had their throats slit as well. A mercy.

All the usable weapons had been taken, he noticed, along with most of the water the war party had carried. The guzzoline had not been drained from the fuel tanks still intact.

After some trial and error, Max found a working car-- halted in its course not by any mechanical damage, apparently, but by the chunk of sheet metal jutting into its driver's neck. He unloaded his belongings from the bike and stashed them in the car, along with what water was left and a couple spare fuel tanks. The rest of the fuel and all the working parts from the other vehicles would have to be left for salvagers or scavengers. But there was one thing left that Max had to do.

_(Help us! You let us die!)_

As carefully as he could, he dragged all the bodies to the bed of a ruined truck. The dead have no need of boots and leathers, so he stripped these, wrapping them into a bundle with a ratty oilcloth tarp and stuffing it into the car. Anything he found in the pockets he placed back with the bodies. Some carved stone dice. A sloppy sketch of naked women dancing. A bit of scrap metal polished into a mirror. When he found the tiny spinning top and crudely-carved plastic dog he had to pause and throw up.

Once all the bodies rested on the truck Max covered them with another oilcloth tarp. Then he doused it with guzzoline and set the pyre ablaze.

The glow of the fire lit the midnight sky as Max drove away.

He reached the Citadel the next afternoon. A flash of red and gold drew his eye to one of the towers. Recognizing Capable with her telescope, he stopped the car and stepped out, hands raised. She whistled a signal, and amid a burst of shouting the gates opened. Max drove in slowly. By the time he was parked in the courtyard Capable had already run down to meet him.

"Max! You came back!"

He flinched at the sound of his name. Wordlessly, he pulled the oilcloth bundle out of the car and set it on the ground at her feet.

"What's this? You brought gear?"

He didn't quite meet her eyes. "Boots. Clothing."

"For us? Or to give the people?" Max just shrugged, so Capable moved on to a different line of questioning. "Where did you go?"

"The pass." The cheerfulness drained from her face. He looked away.

"Did you see-- Did you find anyone there?" Her voice broke as her eyes welled up with fresh tears.

"All dead." He faced her, a touch of consolation in his thousand-yard stare.

She nodded, solemnly, and said nothing. The silence settled between them. Max shuffled his feet and flinched at the air.

_(You said you would help us!)_

"Furiosa?" His eyes showed that he feared the worst.

"She's healing." Capable perked up a little. "She's mostly sleeping still, but you can see her if you want."

Max hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he nodded.

As Capable led him up into the rock fortress, the question troubling her came out. "When you were at the pass... and got the boots... what-- what about the boys?"

His lips moved soundlessly for a moment, finding the right words. "Viking funeral."

He jumped, startled, when she grabbed his hand and pressed it between her palms, so she released it immediately, but when they reached Furiosa's room, he rested a gentle hand on her shoulder as she turned to go.

Furiosa was asleep, but the old Vuvalini woman watching over her rose and offered Max her seat beside the bed. Furiosa's eyelids fluttered open at the creak of the stool when he sat.

"Max?" She coughed. The old woman adjusted the pillow so she could sit up partway. Her face was still covered in bruises, she was obviously exhausted and in pain from the chest wounds, but the swelling on her eye had gone down, and she looked calm, almost relaxed, her hand resting open beside his knee. When he wrapped his fingers around hers, a piece of the same calm spread through his tense body and settled into his frantic mind.

"You won't stay." Her words are just an acknowledgment of the facts. He shook his head once and looked down.

"But you'll be back again?"

He glanced to her face, seeing her confidence in the answer. He squeezed her hand. A promise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how frequently this will update; there's quite a bit of story I'd like to tell, but the first chapter took me two weeks and I have a terrible track record as far as completion goes. Please enjoy what I have so far, and leave thoughts or questions if you have any!


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